


Wicked Game

by Kris_B



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect - Various Authors, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Action & Romance, Adventure & Romance, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Romance, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 16:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21121520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kris_B/pseuds/Kris_B
Summary: "Curiosity Killed The Cat" is a common phrase paired with Chyler Hale. Though in this case "Curiosity" happens to be none other than humanity's golden boy Matthew Shepard, who has a little more rust than shine. They fight together to defeat an ancient enemy... if they don't end up killing each other beforehand. The Mass Effect trilogy with my own personal twist.





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first fic on this site! I originally posted this years ago (middle school me had a very creative imagination) and never got to finish it, so after some major, major revamping, I decided to repost the new content that now fits my more current writing style (I also have more experience under my belt now than 2013 me did). That being said, I’m a little shook with how much I actually like the fic now that I rewrote it and I hope you guys like it too! As always, don’t be afraid to reach out to me.
> 
> ~Kris

He was coming back. You could hear the crashes from him hurling the furnishings downstairs. He was angry, vastly so. Bellows carried up to the little golden haired boy who was hiding in the bedrooms overcrowded closet. It was just big enough to accommodate his size and no bigger.

“Look at me!” he roared from downstairs, the snaps of the belt an echo to his words. The woman's wails became louder with each bite. “Useless piece of trash!” His voice no longer sounded human but of that belonging to something possessed, feral. 

The boy stuffed his fingers into his ears and pinched his eyes shut. He shuffled his knobby knees up to his chin and ducked his head down low in an attempt to try to make himself as small as humanly possible. Then, he waited.

Time passed. The sounds ceased. Everything became silent save for the thump, thump, thumping of his heart pummeling away inside his chest. Then heavy lead-lined boots came thudding up the creaky aged steps with a renewed purpose.

He's looking for me, the boy thought to himself. 

Slowly but surely, thunderous footsteps grew nearer to his cramped hiding space. He shut his mouth with a sharp snap, drawing in his shallow breath and not even chancing a blink. He strived to be brave, he really did, but the burning inferno inside his chest only intensified with each stride the devil took closer. The scars melted into his flesh were scorching because he knew he was about to get more. He didn't want any more. 

The boy thought about what his mother used to tell him; Being afraid will only portray you as being more vulnerable. Count to four, then let the fear go. Let everything go.

One.

Through the slot in the door he could make out the cutting silhouettes of his boots, the charcoal ones with the silver polished clasps. The ones he liked stepping on his fingers with. The serpent-like belt slithered from one of his clenched fists, knuckles white with red rage. 

Two.

The aroma of stale smoke and death radiated off of him, stifling every living thing in the room. He hawked a few times onto the grubby tan carpet. His leering red-rimmed gaze sent a bolt of ice down the boy's spine, eyes that screamed, “I know precisely what scared you, and it's me.”

Three.

The ebony and crimson gold viper tattoo turned its slim neck to grin at the boy with those awful tawny slits. The boots came to an abrupt halt just beyond the closet’s door frame. 

Four.

He bent down and snickered wickedly. The flaxen rotted teeth clashed against his pale aged and speckled skin. “There you are,” he purred, extending a hand forward through the crack. “C’mere, you little shit.” He fisted the boy tightly by his hair and wrenched him forward. 

~~~

He woke with a start. Sweat glazed his skin in a thin sheer sheet, his heart violently battering against his chest. 

Christ, they're back. 

He sat up in his bunk and burrowed his trembling fingers into his damp hair. Taking even breaths, he attempted to soothe the tornado of despondency left in his upper body from the childhood hellmare he had just been forced to relive. The scent of cut-rate cigarettes and bourbon whirled like smog inside his head, obscuring everything else. Making it impossible to focus on anything but the dream. 

A dream. Just a dream.

He mindlessly staggered over to the bathroom faucet and switched it on to splash a handful of cool water onto his overheated face. The brisk spray was welcoming as it dripped down his strained jaw, the bridge of his nose, down his throat. His gaze fell to his dog tags hanging loosely around his neck that clinked soundlessly together. Then to the scars, a piercing aspect on his chest. Tiny yet exceedingly large, faded yet as striking as ever. Eternally a brutish reminder of his colorful, fucked up past. His brows pinched together as he ran the pad of his thumb over the mangled tissue. Did they look more grotesque than usual? 

Then it came sharp and swift as it always did. Flashing achingly in and out of his mind like a dozen photographs being snapped at once until the room materialized before him, limpid. As if he was standing in that same building, a building that had been gone for over a decade, at that very moment.

The stench of excrement and burning flesh threatened to gag him. Her bruiser boyfriend bent over him with an arm welded against his windpipe to keep him securely trapped down on his back as he burned right through the thin cotton shirt and into his skin. The agony was all-consuming, everywhere. From the teeth chattering inside his shriveled mouth, to his fractured fingernails digging craters into his palms, receding down to the extremity of his toes. It was everything, and he was helpless to prevent it. 

Flailing resulted in the press of the burning cigar butt to intensify and the burrowing of the poison invading his body to reach deeper. The smallest of movements triggering the blaze to migrate to new undefiled tissue, which was worse. The man crooned something low, a rumbling growl in his throat as he worked, though Matt wasn't positive what it was. His mind associated the soulless tune with the situation and nothing else. 

Then, bony arms latched around the man's neck in a panic- stricken hold, nails tearing at the bristled flesh desperately in a failed attempt to jerk him away. Red stains blotched his cheeks and his pupils ignited with wrath as he hurled the gaunt limbs from his shoulders with a howl. A deafening wham shook the apartment as Matt’s mother struck the ground below them. The man sprung up so quickly from his seat that it clamored behind him, rounding on the crumbled woman curled underneath his nose. She shrieked as the spike of his boot posed to strike. 

He gasped, choking down as much unspoiled air into his lungs as possible. Staring at the alien expression of fear fixed on his face in the mirror's reflection. He pinched his eyes shut as his chest rattling with each ragged breath in. He hated the tremors in his hands, hated them, and clenched the edge of the sink to cease the shaking. 

“Shit,” he whispered, raking a hand roughly through his hair in a frantic endeavor to ground himself to something, anything. “Shit.” 

Pull yourself together, Matt. This isn't the time to break down, you've got a job to do. Don’t screw it up.

He glanced over his shoulder at the clock that gleamed 0300. It was still well into the night cycle and they wouldn't reach Eden Prime for several hours yet, but the thought of remaining in his broiling room with nothing but his demons to keep him company was unbearable to even consider. 

Pulling the thick, military issue garment on over his head, he sighed as he stepped out of his cabin’s door and up to the cockpit. The Alliance frigate was hushed with only the unseen skeleton crew awake in these premature hours. The eerie silhouettes of nonexistent hostiles made his hands twitch. 

“Early riser, Commander?” Joker asked him as he arrived on the helm. 

“Restless sleeper,” he corrected. “Any change?” 

The pilot shook his head. “As consistent as an elcor’s diction. Just the way I like it.”

Shepard nodded absentmindedly, the unwelcome guest of unease worming it's way into his thoughts. Nothing was ever simple in this galaxy. “Good.”

They fell into a comfortable silence then, settling for ogling space as it glided by them in a blur of illumination and hue. Awaiting what the coming hours would bring. Aiming for the best, yet undeniably preparing themselves for the worst.


End file.
